


Day 24: Latex

by Aichi



Series: Kinktober 2020 [24]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Gen, Latex, M/M, Surreal, Tentacles, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27628898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: Luard dreams of what could have been.
Relationships: Luard/Stealth Dragon Shiranui
Series: Kinktober 2020 [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951588
Comments: 9
Kudos: 5





	Day 24: Latex

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I'm gonna just admit this was basically a filler prompt to start with, and that the actual realistic kink thing I wanted to do for it ended up being more research than I could be bothered with when I'm trying to actually Finish- so. You Get This.. weird nightmare sequence... thing????? instead. It's not even "horror" it's just my stream of consciousness jdhjsgdfdjdsg
> 
> A long time ago I saw some furry art of characters being turned into latex and melted down into new forms, and this isn't that either, but it's the train of thoughts that got me here I guess.

Luard is drowning.

Words like _dream_ and _illusion_ and _hallucination_ float on the surface of his mind like leaves on a still pond, but he’s already been dragged so far beneath them that they’re impossible to grasp. Reality is a distant, inaccessible memory, scraping against his outstretched fingers. It’s so close, and yet at the same time, it’s never been further away.

The liquid around him isn’t _wet_ ; it’s thick and smooth and clinging, and when he moves, kicks, trying to claw his way upward, it just glides over his skin like silk, and he finds no purchase at all. The endless well of inky, luminous blackness shrouds even his own hands in front of his face, and it bubbles and boils and shifts around him in a neverending turmoil. He doesn’t have to _see_ to know that he’s naked; the rubbery darkness brushing and pressing against his skin is proof enough.

He’s not sure why he opens his mouth — to scream, to roar, to cry for help, to ask the world what’s happening to him, to _breathe_ — but the blackness floods right in, slick and bloated and bitter. It fills him as if he were a _vessel_ — his mind stumbles over the word — as if he were made for it, an ugly little mortal thing carved out of clay and blood and made to have every deliberately sculpted hollow and crevice flooded with darkness.

Because he _is_.

Luard’s body was born to hold the choking blackness, and that’s why it pours so easily into his lungs even as he gags and struggles, sharpened claws of panic raking down his chest. There’s no escape from it. The surface is lifting further and further away with every moment, every desperate twist of his body, and it’s futile, and he’d known it was futile right from the moment he was plunged into the dark. There’s no fighting what he was made for. He probably opened his mouth for it on purpose, too.

It’s inside every inch of him, _is_ every inch of him, and the taste and stench of rubber is overpowering.

 _Rubber_ , his addled brain identifies, and he latches onto the word like a lifeline, a single shred of coherency in the impenetrable, impossible darkness. His whole body is made of it, as if he were a cheap toy, and his vision is painted over with blackness, no longer simply because it surrounds him but because it _is_ him. His eyes and skin and brain and flesh are all smooth, clean, shining black latex, and the brief spikes of fear and panic he’d felt before now pop harmlessly out of his chest and fall into the void.

There’s no liquid flowing around him any more. It’s all drained away, cascaded into the infinite void and into _him_ , and he doesn’t even remember it leaving. Trying to remember _anything_ is like trying to count grains of sand; it’s almost impossible to pick out just one identifiable image, and even as he does, the rest scatter everywhere, scooped up into the wind and torn away from him before he can gather them together again.

Luard hangs still and silent in the emptiness, and doesn’t even breathe.

There’s no need to, of course; the latex shapes of lungs and veins and muscles inside him are just a sad echo of his mortal shell, and they sit stiff and silent inside their shiny, black vessel. A slack hand brushes against his thigh with a quiet squeak, and the sound is instantly smothered by the dark.

He _is_ as he and the world are meant to be. Silent.

Something moves below him in the void, stretching up to meet him. Luard doesn’t fear it, because a vessel doesn’t know how to fear or think or feel; there’s no heartbeat to accelerate, and latex skin doesn’t sweat. He simply hangs, lifeless, as tendrils as dark and rubbery as he is slither out of the emptiness, winding around his limbs and pulling them apart. His arms are stretched to either side of him, his legs disappearing into a writhing mass of tentacles that curl and creep up his torso like vines.

These, too, are him. He is the only thing left in this space, the emptiness at the end of the world.

One particularly thick tendril circles around his chest and _squeezes_ , and it’s like being bitten in half. His body buckles and compacts under it, shifting out of shape, and the centre of his mass is squeezed outwards into his legs and head, bloating them absurdly as if he were a balloon. It slides smoothly down his torso, past his chest, and tightens as it moves, squeezing him impossibly thin in places and stretching him unrecognizably in others. Bubbles of _nothing_ roll before it, bulging his latex skin as the tentacle crushes and rearranges the putty of his existence.

It doesn’t hurt, because he has no pain receptors anymore. He feels nothing but the pressure of his own existence. His throat is full of emptiness, so full that there’s nothing for him to choke up as his rubber lungs swell with the poisonous stench of themselves, as his stomach distends and compacts again, and again, and again, as the universe crushes him under its infinite weight.

The invisible claws and teeth of his servants sink lovingly into his bloated body, dents pockmarking the spotless latex. They knead the softened areas between the tentacles’ grip, and he doesn’t remember how or why he knows them, but he does. He remembers their forms, the massive shape of the cyber dragon whose teeth stretch empty holes in his abdomen, the demon whose four arms hold him still as more and more tentacles swarm up his chest, circling him, encasing him, the aquaroid whose form is almost as liquid as his own, the abyss dragon who—

“Luard?”

The abyss dragon had never been one of his servants. He doesn’t truly remember, because the images have been ground and crushed and drowned in liquid latex, but he knows that no servant of his would break the hallowed silence, would dare _exist_ after the end of all things, in this void that belongs to him and him alone.

“Luard?!”

There it is again. The tentacle sliding up and down his chest is ridged suddenly, its shape warped by the horrible sound, and the sharp edges of broad, flat scales slice into his pure black latex, and it _hurts_.

The avatar of nothingness screams, and the sound shreds his perfect silence. Around him, tentacles fall and shrivel like burning vines crumbling to ash. 

“Luard, please wake up. It’s me.”

The narrow slits opening in his latex skin stretch and burn and _open_ , and light floods into the void.

“I’m here,” says Shiranui. “It’s okay.”

 _Shiranui_. The name slithers under the vessel’s rubbery skin, a bright, unwelcome presence in his hollow shell. It shouldn’t be there. Nothing should be there. But it's painfully, horribly familiar, and the shape of the silence around him is already breaking away in huge chunks like broken glass. There’s nothing to stop the name looping over and over in his facsimile of a brain as if it were a holy mantra.

 _Shiranui Shiranui ShiranuiShiranuiShiranuiShi_ —

Luard awakens with a violent jolt, mana screaming instinctively through his veins, and scales ripple down his arm before he’s even aware of them.

“Luard! Luard!” The tentacle — _tail_ , tail, it’s a tail — around his chest tightens protectively, and a clawed hand rests over his. “Shh. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

He breathes. His body remembers how, but he’s distantly surprised to realize it has lungs to receive the air. Slowly, the tidy, familiar minimalism of Shiranui’s bedroom comes back into focus, long shadows drawn by the dim glow of a flickering candle. Bedsheets are tangled awkwardly around his legs, and Shiranui is leaning over him, sporting a dangerously furrowed brow. The dragon’s grip is firm, worried, but not painful.

A claw brushes his cheek, and his chest clenches, throat tightening at the sharp, sudden awareness of his own skin.

Luard starts to cry.

Shiranui pulls him close, and the soft blanket of the dragon’s wings closes around him, and he cries and cries, and doesn’t stop until he forgets the bitter, piercing sound of silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when Gyze turned everything into black sludge and the solution was "cardfight the sludge" hahahaha "What does that have to do with this" Not Much But Also. So Much
> 
> Twitter: @cosmowreath


End file.
